Coffee Break
by m.mfr
Summary: "He cannot quite match the cold, professional Mycroft Holmes with the Mycroft who liked to drink tea obsessively and pretend to arrest his younger brother just to check that he was taking his vitamins on a daily basis." Slash.


Reflecting on the past, DI Lestrade had to admit that putting himself on Mycroft Holmes' blacklist was not one of the smartest things that he had done in his life. In fact, he'd even go so far as to admit that doing so was, along with meeting Sherlock in the first place, one of the stupidest things that he'd ever done.

At the time, it hadn't seemed like too big a deal. He'd shouted at some man trespassing on his crime scene, but considering that he was having to deal with the crackpot theories of some doped-up junkie on a daily basis, Lestrade personally thought that only shouting showed a good deal of restraint upon his part.

At least, that was until he was stopped, questioned and fined heavily for going five miles below the speed limit.

The next day at work had been hell – he'd had to endure a smug smile from the new worker in Forensics; some hippy idiot with a wispy beard and an attitude to rival that of a pit bull. And that wasn't even beginning to mention the catcalls that he'd received as soon as he'd walked through the door before that man had been waiting in his office, a cup of tea resting elegantly in his hand.

"Ah, Detective! I was hoping that we'd have a chance to talk about my brother the other day but you seemed a little...pre-occupied, if you don't mind me saying."

He'd fixed the man with a hard stare, picking up his paperwork from the desk and seating himself. "I don't know how you got in here, but I doubt that you've been cleared by Security and well," he'd paused here, not sure if subtly threatening the man would be just a tad beneath him. "I'm not putting my job on the line having you in here." He'd finished feebly.

The man, _that_ man, he thought briefly in his head, had unsuccessfully smothered a small smile at Lestrade's harried composure; his crumpled shirt, his tie that he had already managed to spill coffee on and his hair half dampened by the rain, half-heartedly flattened by an unenthusiastic attempt to comb through it. He'd stood up from Lestrade's chair and held out his hand politely before uttering the words that Lestrade would look back upon as being the most momentous three words of his life, right after the three words that she had spoken.

"I'm Mycroft Holmes."

Lestrade had gaped for a few moments before remembering that he was probably just about to be fired and that re-enacting the last moments of a dying fish probably wouldn't be the best idea in the world. He shook the offered hand weakly, attempting to give a smile.

"Actually," the man (not that man, but Mycroft) had continued, either not noticing or choosing to ignore Lestrade's internal procrastination. "I was just wondering if you could help me out with a little case." Mycroft had then fixed Lestrade with one of the most dangerous looks that he couldn't help himself; he inadvertently took a step back. "Of course, it would be worth your while."

Lestrade craned his head up, attempting to at least make eye contact with Mycroft and back-track somewhat on his previous shows of nervousness. "And if I don't?"

Mycroft raised his eyebrows and smiled that smile, the one that Lestrade had already come to read as danger; the close-lipped, thin, tight smile. "It would not be wise." He'd walked past Lestrade then, walked to the door and moved to open it before turning to address the other man. "The team is meeting at the docks in precisely two hours. It is my understanding that you are at least somewhat familiar with my brother, Sherlock. I expect you to keep him suitably entertained for the five hours that the team will be investigating the crime scene."

And with that, Mycroft Holmes swept out of the door and into Detective Inspector Lestrade's small, comfortable life.

"

Mycroft Holmes has a tendency to throw Lestrade into unexpected situations and measure his reaction. This is the only explanation that Lestrade has for the fact that it is nine pm, he is dressed in his old pyjamas and Mycroft is standing in front of his front door, carrying a bag of teabags.

"I assume that you no longer have any teabags." Is all he says by way of introduction before he steps past Lestrade, who is holding weakly onto his doorframe, and places himself in Lestrade's unoccupied chair.

Lestrade takes a few moments to steel his nerves and to gather his composure before facing the brick wall that is Mycroft Holmes on a good day.

"I'm here to sort out some personal business," Mycroft offers as an explanation before Lestrade has even spoken. He continues as Lestrade sputters around his words, trying to work out if the Holmes family is nothing short of psychic. "You are slightly predictable, Inspector."

There is nothing that Lestrade can say to this comment that won't get him fired or something similar, so he settles with coughing a little uncomfortably and walking through to the kitchen to put the kettle on. Unexpectedly, Mycroft follows Lestrade into the kitchen area, leaning himself and his cane against one of the worktops and regarding Lestrade with wide eyes; the trademark look that he and Sherlock both seem to own.

"I am trying to understand you," Mycroft tells him suddenly. "You are...interesting, to say the least."

Lestrade busies himself with filling the kettle; taking the utmost care to fill it precisely and avoids Mycroft's eyes in the process; attention from the older man is rare and unpredictable at the best of times.

Mycroft Holmes is, Lestrade thinks a little irritably to himself, one of the more annoying people that he has met in his lifetime. Not so much because of his character, but simply the fact that he is ever-changeable in his actions. There is not much that Lestrade knows about his sometimes-boss, other than his relation to Sherlock. He is not a fool; he knows that Mycroft sees him mostly as a playmate to keep his younger brother entertained and while it strikes a sort of half-feeling of anger, he's long since resigned himself to being in the shadows of Sherlock. Sometimes, he wonders if Mycroft feels the same way.

"The thing is, I can't understand why you live alone, Inspector." Mycroft speaks after Lestrade has put the kettle on and has no choice but to turn around and face the other man currently standing in his kitchen like he has lived there for most of his life. "General analysis of your personality, friends and social structure indicates that you are perfectly able to communicate with both sexes alike. Surveillance of you interviewing witnesses shows that individuals find you attractive so I assume that your marital status is of your own choice but," he exhales heavily here, the air whistling slightly through his teeth as he closes his mouth to finish his sentence. "I cannot understand why."

Silence is nothing like the media has led Lestrade to believe. It is not quiet; nor is it golden. To Lestrade, it feels like a brick wall has been built between himself and Mycroft, one that he is desperately trying to keep up as Mycroft threatens to cross the barrier between 'work life' and 'home life'.

He hesitates before replying. There is no possible way that he can politely tell Mycroft to mind his own business; either he will be punished somehow in some small, petty way, or the whole situation will come to Sherlock's attention and then everything would be blown massively out of proportion.

"It's not particularly important." He settles with saying, certain that Mycroft will read between the lines, that he'll understand the _leave it_! signs that Lestrade is throwing out between his words. Then again, neither of the Holmes brothers has ever been in the slightest bit diplomatic, so he doubts that Mycroft will simply change the subject or, better yet, just leave. Life has never been that simple for him.

He remembers back to the time that Sherlock had set up camp in Lestrade's office, just because Donovan had suggested that he didn't know everything about the older man. That had been only three months after they had initially met and Mycroft had only been a small blip on the radar, occasionally troubling Lestrade to tend to small tasks that he considered beneath him, such as questioning a suspected leader of a terrorist organisation.

Mycroft says nothing. The only movement that he makes is to place his teabags on the top shelf inside the cabinet where Lestrade keeps his plates, before turning back to Lestrade and giving his trademark close-lipped smile. "I suppose that it would be wise of me to come back another day, then." There is something inside his smile that seems a little sad, but Lestrade cannot connect the Holmes brothers with emotions, so he chooses to ignore it, focusing more on the internal panic rising inside of him with Mycroft's words. "Perhaps then it will be more important, Inspector."

"

True to his words, Mycroft shows up at his house again the next week, just after Lestrade has managed to persuade his subconscious into believing that his sometimes-boss' impromptu visit to his house was nothing more than a delusion. He hasn't been quite sure how to explain the teabags to his subconscious just yet, but he's been trying to tell himself that the Holmes brothers have probably discovered telekinesis and used him as their lab rat.

However, all conspiracy theories are (have to be, really) removed as soon as there comes a knock upon his door and he instantly knows who it is. He waits five minutes after the knock, standing near enough to the door to move quickly should he want to, but out of the direct line of sight from the letterbox. This is Mycroft he's taunting here; the man probably carries a periscope in his briefcase.

Five minutes after his first knock, Mycroft delicately taps at the door with his cane; three insistent _Open this door at once_! knocks that send shivers of something he can't quite name down Lestrade's spine.

So he does, of course, mentally rewarding himself for the fact that he considers killing Mycroft for a brief thirty seconds, as opposed to his recent record of two minutes.

For a moment, Lestrade considers pleading a case of an oncoming migraine – partially the truth, but his headaches all seem to be linked to the rapid mood swings of the Holmes brothers recently – before realising that Mycroft is in charge of God knows how many various security systems and that he would be able to see through a blatant lie before Lestrade would even finish speaking.

"Ah, Detective! For a minute, I was sure that you weren't going to answer the door." Mycroft assaults him verbally as soon as Lestrade has opened the door, the look on his face telling the other man that he knows exactly what the detective had been planning to say.

For the past four and a half years, Lestrade has seen first-hand how Mycroft Holmes can silence an incompetent secretary with a mere glance, has seen him make one of the girls in Forensics burst into tears with no more than four words. And yet, he cannot quite match the cold, professional Mycroft Holmes with the Mycroft who liked to drink tea obsessively and pretend to arrest his younger brother just to check that he was taking his vitamins on a daily basis.

Until that moment, that is.

It has never quite occurred to him quite how cruel the two brothers can be, throwing situations into chaos just to get their own way. To him, it has always seemed "for the best", the necessary sacrifice and his cross to bear against the fury of his police team.

But now, he is beginning to understand just why the traumatised witnesses that Sherlock questions and Mycroft blackmails are so angry.

It is not, strictly speaking, any business of Mycroft Holmes' whether Detective Inspector Lestrade lives alone. Neither is it his responsibility to provide reliable back-up for Sherlock whenever he feels like wandering into the middle of a dangerous crime scene and sending everyone sprawling for cover.

Lestrade uses this reasoning to justify the growing feeling of anger inside his stomach; the nauseous effect that almost brings bile to his mouth. It is not Mycroft Holmes' business. This is not fair.

"I'm guessing you're visiting me purely to do with work, sir, but I'm currently off-duty." He tells Mycroft icily, deciding that subtlety is never usually the best method with the Holmes', but that sometimes it cannot hurt to exhaust every option available. Besides, he is angry. Furious, even. Desperate times call for desperate measures.

Mycroft pushes his way through the door and the invisible barriers that Lestrade has created in that way that only he and his brother can manage to do so quite so infuriatingly easily. For one blissful moment,he is quiet and Lestrade hopes that he will turn around and walk straight out of the door. However, he has learned by now that Mycroft will never do what is expected of him, so he is almost not surprised when the man settles himself into a stray armchair and begins to speak after a brief pause.

Mycroft frowns so deeply that his eyebrows almost meet in the middle, his forehead disappearing in miles of creases.

"She left you," he says suddenly, his tone of voice almost bemused. "You came home late one night and she told you that she was leaving, that she'd arranged to stay with a friend for a few months."

Lestrade clears his throat, a little surprised by Mycroft's choice of conversation. He pauses, gives the other man time to breathe and consider the facts (something he has learned only too well with Sherlock) before starting to talk.

"She said she was tired of 'playing second violin'," he says a little bitterly before remembering who he's talking to and once again affecting a bland tone, trying to keep all of the hurt out of his voice. "And yeah, I can get that. But leaving doesn't solve anything. Never does, actually."

Mycroft leaves the words hanging in the air before he begins to speak again. "I was trying to work out why you lived alone." A wry smile meets his lips as he speaks, tugging a little unexpectedly at Lestrade's emotions. "And your behaviour and actions have left me to conclude that you would choose and live with a wife, whether you were happy or unhappy." He frowns then and puts his tea down somewhat abruptly, his tone of voice changing. "Settling for second-best is among one of man's greatest flaws, Inspector."

Lestrade bristles a little at the unexpected quip, feeling a little hurt. "You weren't there," he tells Mycroft harshly. "You can't judge me when you weren't there."

There is a brief lull in the conversation as for once, Lestrade suspects that Mycroft may not know what to say. He himself cannot think of anything to say now; to carry on in the same manner would surely mean a fight,and to back down is...something that he doesn't do. And for the first time in his life, Lestrade begins to think that maybe Mycroft Holmes is somewhat more human than he had first considered.

The thought is not a welcome one. It is the kind of revelation that makes Lestrade wish that he hadn't even had the glimpse of the fact that he no longer has the constant in his life that was a mild dislike for the stoic and robotic man strikes hard and fast, makes him want to consider new possibilities that seemed unlikely before. Makes him want to challenge boundaries.

This is very, very bad.

Mycroft's face is unreadable as he fixes his gaze on Lestrade, causing the younger man to shift uncomfortably in his seat. After a long silence, he exhales heavily. "I admit, I may have misjudged you a bit, Detective."

"Why are you really here, Mycroft?" Lestrade is almost afraid to hear Mycroft's answer; almost wishes for the chance that the only answer to his question would be a reminder to address his superiors appropriately.

Lestrade can see a glimpse of who Mycroft was as a teenager underneath his cool composure for a few brief moments and feels a hint of sympathy for the fifteen-year old who would have been left to understand the dictations of high society on his own; life with an infant Sherlock could never have been easy. A part of him almost wants to apologise but another part of his brain is reminding him of all of the times that Mycroft has humiliated him, all of the times that Lestrade has had to fight against his team for an inch of respect.

"I...I must confess that I am not quite sure, Detective," The answer leaves Lestrade questioning everything that he has learned in the past five years and, strangely, leaves him a little uncertain as to how to behave around the older man. "I do, however, feel that more than enough has been said for the night and that I really should be leaving now."

Lestrade is left a little bewildered as he recognises tones of bitterness and resent in Mycroft's voice. And for once, he is left wondering as Mycroft leaves his flat.

"

The next seven days are spent in a whirlwind with a surprising lack of either of the Holmes' in Lestrade's life. The distraction of paperwork is surprisingly welcome and leaves him empty of thought when he stumbles into bed at night. For seven days, life is relatively simple. Sherlock is off doing God-knows-what with his roommate and Mycroft is...Mycroft. Other than a late-night trip to A&E after intervening in a bar brawl, Lestrade finds that there is nothing to complain about.

It is, dare he say it, tedious. It is boring and he longs for a challenge, a brutal killing or a tip-off in the dead of the night from some shady character. It is not like him.

And yet, he finds himself filled with some sort of excitement when his phone alarm wakes him up on Thursday.

"

The first thing that Mycroft says as he walks through the door is an almost-clamouring, "I don't know why I'm here."

Lestrade raises his eyebrows in speculation as he considers his answers before replying with, "I don't know why you are either."

The two men stand opposite each other, considering, before Mycroft walks into Lestrade's kitchen and reaches for his set of teabags and puts the kettle on to boil. He frowns at the various boxes of coffee before selecting a sachet of Nescafe from a half-empty box and, reaching for the sugar, places two exact spoonfuls into the mug.

"How do you know what I take?" Lestrade blurts out, more for lack of anything to say than the actual desire to know. For a moment, he thinks that Mycroft might actually not answer before the other man turns to him and smiles slightly.

"Deduction," he pauses slightly before continuing, the sound of the kettle boiling forcing him to raise his voice slightly. "And I watch you sometimes in the break-room."

They make their way to the sitting room, both clutching chipped mugs before sitting down. Lestrade takes a sip from his coffee before deciding on a reply. "Is that meant to reassure me?"

Mycroft raises his eyebrow. "It depends."

As per usual, Mycroft does not ease into conversation. Lestrade cannot imagine the genuine terror of being questioned opposite the man, although he supposes that Mycroft seldom makes the mistake of questioning anyone innocent.

Mycroft leans forward in the chair that over the past fortnight Lestrade has come to think of as his. "You are...enamoured with my brother." He doesn't phrase it as a question and he meets Lestrade's eyes dead-on.

For a moment, Lestrade considers putting on a front and his mouth moves to form the start of an angry sputter before he remembers that this is Mycroft. Mycroft, who has somehow managed to plant himself quite firmly in Lestrade's life and isn't showing any signs of leaving anytime soon. The thought is a little dizzying to Lestrade and he takes a breath to reflect on Mycroft, on Sherlock, on the paperwork that keeps on piling up and the never-ending cases, the never-ending pain that the job seems to hold.

"Well, yeah," Lestrade states simply, shrugging nonchalantly. "But I'm not the only one, am I? And not like...that, I mean."

The side of Mycroft's mouth quirks up into a smile and he breaks eye contact with the other man, placing both of his hands neatly in his lap. "Indeed," is all he says, causing Lestrade to reel back slightly in his seat, trying to figure out how to change the subject subtly. "But I'd imagine that you wouldn't want to discuss Sherlock, would you, Detective?"

There's a note of resent in his voice and not for the first time, Lestrade wonders just how close the brothers are, exactly.

Since Sherlock Holmes came stumbling into his life five years ago, noisily demanding attention and unwanted emotions, things have been more than a little chaotic for Lestrade. He deals with twisted psychopaths on a fairly regular basis now, and a small part of him is beginning to wonder if Sherlock is causing more harm than good.

"You are not an unattractive man, Inspector," Mycroft tells him in an even voice, continuing even as Lestrade coughs on the hot mouthful of coffee that he has just taken. "Rules of society dictate that as an older man, both young men and women find you attractive. Indeed, you are certainly not unappealing."

Lestrade struggles unsuccessfully to keep the blush from spreading to his face as he looks around the room at anything but Mycroft's eyes.

"So, why are you telling me this?" The question is the only thing that he can say, short of shaking Mycroft's shoulders and demanding to know what has caused this sudden personality shift. For some unfathomable reason that vaguely alarms Lestrade, he finds the lack of Mycroft's usual slight smile disconcerting.

For a moment, Lestrade thinks that Mycroft is planning to say something and he narrows his eyes slightly, raising his coffee to his mouth after mentally reminding himself of the temperature of the drink in his hands. For once, he realises that Mycroft's previous behaviour had become almost predictable before his timely discovery of the new Mycroft – emotional, harsh, impatient and a little vulnerable.

However, Mycroft remains silent before he exhales heavily and meets Lestrade's eyes dead-on. "I should go," is all that he reveals before reaching for his cane. Lestrade watches him wordlessly, not quite sure of what he wants to say, or what is going on. It is not in his nature to throw words at people, nor to try and outwit them in an attempt to maintain a sense of self-importance. And so, his next actions are entirely new to both himself and anyone else who would be in his living room at ten o'clock on an otherwise dull Thursday evening.

"Don't," is all that he can say, not quite sure of what he's doing before he's opened his mouth with the next sentence. "I don't know what the hell you're doing but just-"

Then comes the moment when Lestrade is actively blocking the doorway from Mycroft and he realises that this is the kind of moment that Sherlock would scoff at before realising that those kinds of thoughts are making Mycroft's temper flare in the first place. He outstretches his hand to take Mycroft's cane and leaves it there, looking up to make eye contact with the taller man.

"Just, I don't know, stay. Just for a while." Lestrade clears his throat, his voice gruff. He is not used to this kind of thing; especially not on what he thought would be a standard Thursday evening, filled with takeaway and self-pity. He is also not used to seeing Mycroft visibly distressed, but the thought is fleeting.

Mycroft quirks an eyebrow at Lestrade, amusement clear upon his features before his face clouds over as he remembers.

"It was my impression that you need my brother," He states bluntly.

Lestrade opens his mouth to protest, to throw out a retort filled with his usual aggression before he remembers that this will not work with Mycroft.

"Not like that," he says quietly, unsure of why he is trying so hard to convince Mycroft of how matters are. He is certain that after tonight, there will be no more impromptu visits and oddly, the thought does not trigger the relief that he expected.

"Hmm," Mycroft says quietly, which Lestrade imagines is the Holmes' equivalent of the word 'Whatever'.

The two sit in an uncomfortable silence for a few minutes before Mycroft reaches out for the television remote and, after running his fingers over the buttons, switches onto the news for a grand total of five seconds.

"I was watching that!" Lestrade protests mildly, but Mycroft merely smiles in response.

"No, you weren't."

However, the news is switched back on and Mycroft tosses the remote back to Lestrade before resting heavily on the arm of the chair. Lestrade half-watches the news; he vaguely processes things that may be useful the next day, but he finds his thoughts drifting. Before too long, the news has ended and some B-grade film that never made it to the cinema is playing. The combination of too-much swearing and sexual innuendoes piques Lestrade's interest for a matter of seconds before the appearance of a typically well-endowed and scantily-clad heroine makes him scoff and turn off the television.

He focuses his attention back to the figure in the corner who is to all appearances, he notes with surprise, very much asleep. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he considers the idea of fetching Mycroft a blanket, before deciding that since his flat is now being infiltrated on a regular basis, he doesn't actually have to be that polite.

At least, that was his plan until he returned from locking the window in the kitchen.

Mycroft had made his own way onto the sofa, as if Lestrade had himself guaranteed that the man could stay the night. Somehow, that makes Lestrade's mind up for him, and he finds himself covering Mycroft with an old duvet left over from the days of Sherlock occasionally turning up in his flat. Part of him argues that a logical thing to do would be to wake up the man on the sofa and demand his immediate departure, but Lestrade has long since passed logic. Instead, he simply sighs and locks the front door before making his way to his own room.

"

As if he is starring in his very own bad B-grade movie, Lestrade finds himself awake and thirsty at around three in the morning. He knows that there is a probability that his subconsciousness is playing a part in his thirst and that humouring his matchmaking subconsciousness is probably a bad idea, but he decides to fetch himself a glass of water anyway.

He takes soft, padding footsteps through to the kitchen, pausing in front of the sofa almost unconsciously to try and decipher his unruly house guest. There is something unique about

watching Mycroft sleep, something that strikes a mild feeling of endearment deep within; a twisting, unpleasant sensation in his stomach that makes his breath catch in his throat. Contrary to his daily appearance, Mycroft sleeping is anything but elegant. One arm is thrown haphazardly over his head, his legs twisted around the duvet as he shifts, knocking a cushion onto the floor. And yet, yet there is something that will not let Lestrade move away;something that makes him cautiously crouch in front of Mycroft, mesmerising every frown, every detail.

Given Mycroft's character, Lestrade knows that it is almost inevitable that he will be caught in his lmost-tender stance. There is something though, somehing in the dead of night that makes him stay where he is and he watches Mycroft's eyes open, clarity showing on his face in the dim light.

There is nothing said between the two as clumsy, inexperienced hands fumble together, impatience overtaking nervousness. There is nothing but the unravelling of two brilliant minds and Lestrade

makes a choke noise, somewhere between a cry and a yelp as Mycroft breaks him down with heart-wrenchingly gentle touches.

He is trying not to compare. He is trying not to think. He is trying not to match the similarities between the two as the night grows quiet once again. Mycroft rolls away from him, hiding himself and sheltering his face behind an arm returned to its confident place over his head.

Vaguely, Lestrade registers the sensation of being cold.


End file.
